Better On My Own
by CrossbowDon'tMiss
Summary: Daryl's acting odd, slipping off by himself and getting all highstrung for no good reason. Then, Daryl breaks the cardinal rule of supply runs: no staying out past nightfall. With no idea why - if he got caught by the storm, if he got caught by walkers...or worse - Rick's got no choice but to wait for him...and deal with what comes after. Part 4 of This...Thing series. Rickyl
1. Chapter 1

There's a rule in the prison for runs: always be back before dark. Whether it's a quick run into town or a trip just outside to check the snares, they'd all agreed to be back before dark unless they'd all of them agreed there was a good enough reason to stay out. And even then, there was an understanding in place. Even then, when night fell, they planned and made damn sure they could get someplace secure.

The rule, though…it'd been around long before they found the prison. It was back at the farm, their first long-term camp since the mountains, that it developed. It was that day Daryl was setting out to look for Sophia. Rick caught him on his way out by sheer dumb luck – another rule they'd picked up pretty soon after'd been to let somebody else know before you headed out – and thought it might be smart to check in with him. Daryl was the master of all things woods and tracking, but he was still just one man. All by his lonesome.

Far as Rick could see it, that was no way to be when the walkers came running.

"You okay on your own?" he'd asked. He'd meant it to be an offer at the time; he'd have rounded him up some backup, or hell, he'd have hit the woods with him, had his back himself. He was no woodsman himself, but he was handy in a pinch. Better'n nothing, at least.

But Daryl'd just started walking again. "I'm better on my own," he'd said, and Rick didn't know what it was about it at the time, couldn't quite put his finger, but something about that just…it didn't sit right. Not quite sad, not quite taken aback, but someplace in between.

He never got the chance to call him on it. Daryl'd been a man on a mission, and he wasn't slowing down.

"Don't worry," he'd called back, not even bothering to look once over his shoulder. In hindsight, Rick's started to wonder just how much of Daryl's attitude back then was really attitude, though, and how much of it was just him not being real sure on how he was supposed to act. "I'll be back before dark."

And there it was; that was the start of it – and, as he recalls now, the day Daryl more or less signed on to being part of their group – and the rule just stuck. No goin' off alone, and no coming back after dark.

Any questions there might've been to it were well enough put to rest by that night last fall, too. Rick doesn't like to think on it too much, but that night when Daryl showed up all covered in blood, saying he was bit…damned if Rick wasn't hard-pressed to try and keep anybody from going out at all.

Only, he didn't. Not really. He wanted to; Christ, but he did. But even if they could've afforded to stop runs altogether, Rick knew better than to think he could keep Daryl locked up inside that prison. Trying to keep Daryl anyplace he didn't want to be was like trying to cage water: it wasn't going to work, and he'd frustrate himself to tears trying.

He figured he had enough gray hairs already, thanks.

No, their runs when on. Daryl, just as soon as he was healthy enough to do it – and on the subject of keeping Daryl places he didn't want to be, trying to keep him on bed rest while his side and shoulder had healed up had been an uphill battle Rick'd like to have never won – picked right back up where he'd left off, and the world, at least what was left of it, kept right on turning. All Rick asked was that they kept to the rules. Two simple, important rules.

And that's why, as the sun slips well behind the treeline and the sky goes dark with still no sign of Daryl back from his hunting trip, Rick's starting to get more than a little uneasy.

It's passing midnight, by Rick's best guess. Daryl's been gone since sunrise that morning – or, he reckons now, the morning before – and since then, a storm's rolled in that's dropping buckets outside. Rick's been out in it more than a few times, checking in with Sasha in the guard tower to see if she's spotted him. Nothing doing, and he's pretty sure he's pestered the piss out of her with his asking.

Matter of fact, he reckons he's scared off just about everyone. It's past curfew, so most people have bunked down for the night anyhow. But he's been snapping at people he's got no right snapping at all night – he'll apologize for it later, he tells himself; he's just wound too tight – and pacing holes in the concrete.

It's not like Daryl to be late. Daryl knows how important it is to be back before dark, not just for being safe, but for the people back in the prison. He's got to know they'll be worried about him. That _Rick_ will be worried about him. And sure, it ain't as if he could pick up a phone and call to let Rick know he'd be running late or bunking over or Lord only knew what else, but it still strikes him that something's got to be wrong here for Daryl to have broken a cardinal rule.

"Maybe he just got caught by the storm," Carol says. Seems she's the only one still awake dares be around Rick when he's in a mood. Which is good, he reckons, because she's just about one of the only ones he can stand to be around him when he's in a mood. And since another's MIA, that puts her pretty damn high on the shortlist.

"No," he says, and he's just grateful when it doesn't come out sounding too harsh. Optimism or not, he can tell she's just as worried as he is. "Those clouds were rolling in all afternoon, and the man's a walking farmer's almanac. He'd have known the storm was gonna hit." And knowing Daryl, he wouldn't have been out in it by choice.

See, the way Rick has it figured, the man's like a cat. Only takes to a few people at best, does what he wants when he wants to do it, dead silent walking with a vendetta against vermin – especially the bushy-tailed variety – and loves warmth but _hates_ water. The man doesn't even care much for showers, and even if he'll go out in the rain when it's for a cause, soon as the first raindrop dampens his clothes, it does the same to his attitude. No way no how he would choose to be out in this instead of back in the prison where it was warm and dry. Not for a hunting trip when they were still so well-stocked.

They'd been stuck in for a week and a half before that, first with a walker build up at the gates and then a storm that this one seemed to be riding the coattails of, but they're still more than well-off. At least enough that they can make it a day or two until the storm blows over. It just doesn't make sense for him to be out there.

But then, come to think of it, "Has Daryl been acting strange to you lately?"

Carol's eyebrows rise a little. "You mean more than usual?" she teases. But it's said too fondly to be an insult, and too unsteadily to be a joke. Carol loves Daryl just as much as Rick does; they're family, and she's worried about him. Rick understands and respects that.

All the same, he frowns. "I'm being serious, Carol," he tells her. "He's been all out of sorts lately; I can't be the only one noticing. Hiding out in the guard towers every chance he gets, slippin' out onto the roof. I'd say he's been makin' himself scarce, except that'd mean he'd actually been around some at all."

And he knows Carol knows what he's talking about, even before she says anything, because she's nodding, and she gets this little furrow line on her forehead. He's probably got one pretty similar, only probably not that subtle. His probably looks like it's been etched in with a chisel. Probably permanent, too.

They're quiet for a second, and Rick uses the time to glance through the barred windows and briefly considers heading back out to the East tower. It's been about fifteen minutes; he'd say it's about time for another check-in. Assuming Sasha's not about ready to shoot him on sight.

It might be for the better that Carol cuts in before he can get to thinking on it too seriously, but her question kind of throws him for a loop. "What about with you?"

For a second, Rick's not really sure how to answer that. He knows what she's asking, he just…he doesn't know the answer. He runs a hand through his hair, sighing, trying to think, but the works are so damn gunked up worrying about Daryl he's gaping like a fish out of water until Carol offers him an out.

"I didn't mean to pry," she says. "I just didn't know."

That makes two of us, Rick wants to say, but instead he just shakes his head and shrugs. It's hard to say how he and Daryl are; he can't even say _what_ they are. Still. After everything, after all the time that's passed since that afternoon in the guard tower, when they started this…whatever the hell they have going on here, they still haven't put a name to it. That'd require them talking about it, and they never really do. It just…is. They just are. They don't have to talk about it; there's an understanding between them that's always been enough.

Now, though…Rick's kind of starting to wonder if it is. Enough, he means. Because he doesn't know what's going on with Daryl, or hell, if it has anything to do with him going missing or not, but he's getting himself all bent out of shape, and twisted metal's easier to twist. So, he does think about it. If nothing else, it's a little more bearable than thinking about what could've happened to Daryl out there.

Daryl's acting funny; there's no two ways about it. Sneaking off, pacing at night. He's not eating near enough, but then, he never does. Never takes the time to get any food, and half the time he does eat, it's Carol or Beth bringing him food. Or Rick, but Rick's a bit more subtle about it. He brings his own, plus a little extra; Daryl likes picking off his plate, and then Rick doesn't have to deal with being called a mother hen.

It's nighttime, he reckons, things're a little trickier. Used to be Daryl slept the night with him just as often as not; there for a while, after his brother died and they ran off the Governor, it was nigh-on every night.

Lately, though…it's not that Daryl's not coming around him, 'cause he is. Hell, it seems like he's one of the only people Daryl cares _to_ come around. Problem is he doesn't tend to stay that way anymore. He'll just kind of wander in at some hour of the night, lurk a little bit. Sometimes he lays down, sometimes he just leans against the wall and closes his eyes like he's keeping watch or something. And most of the time, Rick just lets him do what he's gonna do, because, well…he's Daryl. He does it anyway.

"That frown's awfully deep," Carol observes, snapping Rick out of his head. Mercifully, she doesn't ask what it's for – he's not real sure he could tell her, even if he wanted to, and he's not real sure he even wants to – just puts a hand on his shoulder and gives it a squeeze. "He always comes back, Rick. Even when you didn't think he would, he came back."

And despite everything, Rick kind of smiles at that, if only because he remembers that next morning, when Daryl finally came around. All bleary-eyed and groggy, but that smile…Christ, but that smile. Mine forever, Rick had said, and he'd meant it. So long as Daryl'd have him, he'd have him.

As for Rick…Rick just needs to have him back.


	2. Chapter 2

It's nearing dawn. The sun's peaking up over the trees, and the prison's coming back to life again. The mess hall's bustling when he passes through, the cell block's full up, and near on everyone's back out and about.

Everyone save Daryl.

Rick's been up through the night waiting with nothing to show for it but bags under his eyes worse than usual and a temper hot enough to boil water, because Daryl's still not back. Still gone. Still out there with no way of telling what's happened to him. And people are steering clear of him for it. Even the pigs and horse cut him a wide berth when he goes out to feed them, and they're probably wise to do it.

At least now they're starting to catch on to why. The people, not the animals, 'cause wouldn't that be a trick? The Woodbury folks don't really know the rules just yet, or at least don't have the same appreciation for them the main group does. Like as not, they didn't think much of Daryl being out; he's not real sure they do a whole lot of second guessing when it comes to Daryl at all. He brings them food and otherwise doesn't really give them the time of day. They look up to him, or a lot of them do, but Rick wonders sometimes if they don't see him as something more or less than human.

Anyhow, they're noticing it now, thathe's not come back. A kid named Patrick just recently joined on at the prison, asked about him, but he hadn't passed too far past Rick telling him he didn't know. Again, probably wise.

Rick's mood's not getting any better. He's getting ready to start organizing a search party – there's no shortage of volunteers, but Rick's keeping it small and mobile – send them out just as soon as the rain, still hanging around from the night before, decides to slack off. Or maybe before,. He doesn't know. All he knows is that every second Daryl's not back in the prison is a second he could be getting into trouble, or else getting gnawed on by some walker out there. Just thinking about it's enough to send him up the creek, enough to drive him mad all over again.

Maybe that's why, as Rick's rounding up the last of the search party under the walkway overlooking the yard, and the telltale rumble of a chopper comes in over the rain, that on top of the bone-crushing relief that near enough takes his knees out from under him, there's a hellish sort of flare in his temper that only gets worse as a couple of people go sprinting out to open the gates.

Rick's not one of them.

It's wrong; he knows it is. There's a part of him that wants to do nothing more than run out and grab the worrisome son of a bitch off that damn bike and kiss him 'til they both run out of air, because he's back, he's alive, and from what Rick can see, he's just fine and dandy, if looking a bit like a drowned rat.

But Rick, he's just…he's spitting mad. Whistling Dixie, and instead of that, he's walking back inside, into the cell block, trying to give himself a chance to cool off, except it's not working. It's not working, because now he knows there's no good reason Daryl was out there, at least none he can think of. The storm's just as heavy now, so it doesn't stop him travelling, and he had plenty chance to make it back the afternoon before, when the storm was still rolling in.

He's got himself a deer, too. A good-sized one, Rick sees, when Daryl gets it inside with a little help. The whole would-be search party's cheering him on, singing his praises for bringing in yet another meal, and a crowd's gathering. Everyone's making over him, and for all Rick knows he deserves it, working hard through the rain to bring them back food, it only makes him madder. You don't break the rules for a buck. A buck, no matter how big, ain't worth the risk, and Daryl knows that. He knows that.

It gets to where Rick can't take it anymore. "Daryl," he calls, voice low and even, but with the echoes, it's still enough to hear over the chatter. Everyone quiets down and looks over, Daryl included, to where Rick's standing farther on in the cell block, and Rick almost has a change of heart when he sees a flash of what looks a hell of a lot like relief skit across Daryl's face. Almost. "Can I have a word with you?"

The relief becomes confusion, but all Rick cares about, goddamn him, is that Daryl starts making his way through the crowd. Rick turns, then, and heads for the generator room, because this isn't a conversation for prying ears, and he trusts Daryl to follow him.

Even as mad as he is, Rick can still trust him to do that.

He leaves the door open when he gets in, figuring Daryl'll be on in shortly, and at least this time, Daryl's right on schedule. He comes wandering in a minute or so after, silent as always; if he hadn't been watching the door, he might never've known he'd come in. "Get the door."

Daryl doesn't argue or ask why, either. He gives Rick a look, that sort of wary confusion Rick's used to seeing – just not aimed his direction, usually – but other than that, nothing. Just closes the door behind him and takes a few steps in.

His body language is awful telling. Rick knows Daryl, knows all his little habits and ticks, and he knows from the way Daryl angles his body towards him, not quite dead-on but sideways a little, with his head dipped and canted, that he knows something's up, and that he's not real comfortable about whatever it is. And Rick'd be lying if he said there isn't a part of him sees that, sees him all soaked to the bone and weary, and wondered if maybe this can't wait until after he'd gotten him into some dry clothes, and at least got some food in him.

Problem is, that part of him is awful quiet as compared to the part that wants to grab Daryl by the shoulders and shake some damn sense into him.

"The hell was that?" he says finally. It's not too sharp, but there's an intensity to it by its own right.

Daryl, for his part, doesn't seem to get any more at ease. "The hell was what?"

"Don't give me that bullshit, Daryl. You know damn well what I'm talking about." Rick knows he does, or else he wouldn't be looking so damn guilty, eyes flicking down to the ground every now and again and lips drawn tight. He's shifting his weight from foot to foot like he does when he's uneasy, and that alone ought to put Rick off the war path.

Ought to doesn't mean it does, though.

"Storm caught me."

Especially not when Daryl tries to feed him that crock of shit.

Rick's temper flares. "The hell it did. You and I both know the storm didn't have a damn thing to do with you staying out all night!" Before he knows it, he's hollering. And once he's started, it just keeps going, like a brush fire in a drought. All his worry and frustration's built up, not just from the night, but these past few weeks leading up to it with Daryl acting so damn strange all the time. It all bubbles up and boils over, and there's not a damn thing Rick can do to stop it. Truth be told, though, he doesn't try all that hard. "You know better, damn it! Nobody stays out past nightfall unless the Council approves it, and sure as hell never on their own!"

"I was fine," Daryl mutters, eyes still downcast.

"You were stupid!" Rick snaps. "You took an unnecessary risk. You broke the rules—"

"To hell with your rules!" Seems it's Daryl's turn, now. His eyes are up and narrowed; his fists, clenched. Rick might not've been looking to pick a fight, but it seems he might've done just that. "You think I give a rat's ass what the Council says? I don't answer to none 'a y'all, and I sure as hell ain't about to let y'all tell me where I gotta be and when! The fuck gives you the right, anyhow?"

And for a minute there, Rick's gobsmacked. Daryl might just as soon have socked him in the jaw than say what he said, because he's never questioned Rick before. Never called him out before, not since that first winter after they lost the farm. Daryl's always had his back, always been behind him, and this lashing out like this, this throwing it all back at him, this ain't like him.

Anger's got him bouncing back, though, maybe quicker than he should. Maybe he ought to have stopped, thought. But he doesn't, because he's seething, and Daryl's seething, and there's a tension in the room a hacksaw couldn't cut. "Maybe you ought to be askin' yourself that question," he tells him. "All those people crowded around weren't there to welcome you home; they were fixin' to go looking for you. _We_ were fixin' to go looking, put lives on the line because we thought you might've been in trouble."

Rick says it half-expecting it to take some of the wind out of Daryl's sails, maybe knock him down a peg or two – he's the one in the wrong here, dammit, not Rick or the council – but if anything, it just looks to rile Daryl up more.

"Shoulda just let me be!" he nigh-on snarl. "All y'all gotta be in everybody's business all the time."

"So what? You thought you'd just take yourself a little sabbatical, spend the night in a forest full of goddamn walkers?"

"Better'n a prison full of a goddamn people!" Daryl shoots back, quick as the snap of his crossbow, and that seems to be all he's got to say on the matter, because he turns to leave.

Only, Rick's not so ready to let it be. "Hey, we ain't finished yet," he says, and without thinking, he reaches for Daryl's shoulder to turn him back around.

This time, Daryl actually _does_ sock him in the jaw.

The punch catches Rick off his guard, and it's hard enough to crack his head to the side. Pain mixed with surprise and just a little bit of indignation, and next thing Rick knows, he's reaching for the front of Daryl's shirt.

But then, he stops. His fingers never touch Daryl's shirt; his hands just freeze, and Rick does too, because he sees it. Daryl's face. His eyes are wide as Rick's ever seen, staring at Rick like he can't hardly wrap his head around what's just happened. Then he's looking down at his fist, flexing it in a way that makes blood well over the split. Rick doesn't think the hit was that hard – it smarts like a son of a bitch, but nothing's broken – but much as he thinks he ought to tell Daryl that, if only to get that startled look off his face, the words just won't seem to come.

"Daryl," he starts to say, but that's as much as he's got. It's not enough, and he knows that, and before he can think of anything to follow, Daryl's turning tail and leaving. Even the slam of the door's not enough to snap Rick out of his daze, and he just stands there, hand still raised, trying to figure out what the hell just happened.

Or, better yet, what _has_ happened. With Daryl. _To_ Daryl, maybe, and to the both of them, because this…this ain't right. Something ain't right, and it's got Rick scared. And Rick can see it, now. Saw a glimps of it in his eyes just before he'd turned and left…

Daryl's scared, too.


	3. Chapter 3

Rick's got a nasty habit of overthinking. Daryl called him on it once, said he was thinking himself old and gray. Rick laughed it off at the time, but come to think of it, Daryl was probably right.

It's hard for a man like Rick to admit, but he's finding Daryl usually is.

Maybe that's why he's all twisted around and ass backwards, standing there in the generator room. He hasn't moved since Daryl made his exit a good five minutes earlier. Maybe more; he doesn't rightly know. And he's too busy thinking to care.

Daryl's not rash. He's got his moments, sure, but he's changed a lot since the first summer in the hills; he's not the sort to lose it at the drop of a hat. Hell, of most of the guys there, he's probably one of the most level-headed they got.

And he doesn't go getting all bent out of shape over nothing, either. Not Daryl. It ain't that he don't get upset, 'cause he does – Rick knows every time they lose somebody, it tears that man up inside – he just doesn't show it.

So for him to act like he's been , all antsy and standoffish, not to mention flipping his lid like he did, Rick knows there's got to be something up. And while no man likes getting popped in the jaw – at least no man Rick's ever met or ever cares to – he's got to admit, it sure helped clear his head.

He's wracking his brain. Jaw throbbing and heart still pounding a touch quicker than it ought to be, he's doing that damn thing again where he thinks himself in knots, trying to figure out what's going on in that funny little head of Daryl's.

His first thought's that it's something he did. He's the one with the sore cheek, after all. But he waves that off pretty quick. Maybe he did a stupid thing backing Daryl into a corner like that.

Alright. He _definitely _did a stupid thing doing that, not just for what it got him, but because if Daryl's bothered about something, that sure as hell didn't do much to put him at ease. But Daryl's not been avoiding _him_, necessarily. He might not find his way into Rick's bunk quite so often as he used to, but he's not acting any different around Rick otherwise.

It's more like everyone else he's steering clear of. And that's a bit of a ball-rolling moment there, because Rick starts to put the pieces together. Been a while since he's been sheriff, but it seems like he's still got a few sprigs of that old intuition left in him, yet.

He's staying in the guard towers. Someplace high like he likes to go when he needs some space, someplace separate, away from everything else. And unless someone goes up to relieve him or check in, it's away from every_body_ else, too. The roof's the same. The place is off-limits after a fella from the Woodbury group nearly fell off going for a smoke. Nobody ever goes up there anymore, 'cept Daryl and maybe Rick and the council when they need a bird's eye view.

And when he's in the prison, he's got this caged look about him. Rick didn't give it much thought before; Daryl's got this uncanny knack for looking closed in even when he's outside, and it's not 'til Rick thinks back on the short little while there once they'd gotten the prison cleared out and really settled in, that he realizes he was starting to seem a bit more comfortable inside four walls.

That thing he said, though. _Better than a prison full of goddamn people_…that's the real kick to the teeth. Rick needs to finally get his head out of his ass and figure it out.

It's got nothing to do with Rick or the prison or Daryl going stir crazy – the thought had crossed Rick's mind at one point that maybe Daryl was just getting fed up being in the one place, that he wanted to move on – or any other possibility Rick cooked up, he really does think too damn much, because the answer's so damn simple. It's been right in front of him; Daryl near enough told him straight out. If it was a snake, it would've bit him.

It's the people.

Daryl's always been the loner type. He likes people alright, Rick thinks. Wants to be around them, at least a lot of the time. He's just not used to them. The way he grew up, from what Rick's pieced together and from the scant bits Daryl's shared with him over time, it wasn't exactly chock-full of decent, compassionate folks wanting to be around with him. Rick's not real sure he knows what to do with them.

It's like back on the farm. They'd all set up their little camp on Hershel's land, all of them that were left. But Daryl…he made his own camp, off away from theirs. He wandered over from time to time; Rick used to think he was just after food, but now he knows better.

Daryl didn't need their food, especially not since he'd been the one feeding them half the time. What he was really doing, least the way Rick sees it, is testing the waters. Sticking a toe in at a time and trying to decide if he wanted to jump in or stay out. It wasn't until right there near the end that he seemed to decide, and even then, as part of their group that winter, there were times…lots of times, now Rick thinks on it, that Daryl didn't seem real sure what to do with himself. How to be part of a group, when it'd just been him and his brother against the world for so long.

And now they've got…all of this. Dozens of people, between the Woodbury folks and all the stragglers they've picked up along the way these past few months, all filling up the once-empty cells, the empty blocks, one by one. Even Rick'll admit it gets a mite bit claustrophobic from time to time, all those people. Especially after so long it just being their little group.

With that first little key clicking into place, everything else starts to fall in. It starts to make sense, and little things Rick didn't think much on at first start to pop into his head. That little flash of relief when Daryl was dead center of that crowd of people. They were just happy and impressed about the buck, just there to thank him, but he can't hardly imagine how much that's gotta put Daryl on edge. He gets twitchy with just one person backing him into a corner, never mind being surrounded on all sides. The people don't mean nothing by it, and for anyone else, it might just be another thing, but Daryl…

Daryl's not used to it. He's not used to people, and much as Rick and Carol and everybody else it seems like've tried breaking him of it, he's not used to praise. He's not used to people appreciating him for the things he does, and it's all kinds of not right, because he's saved all their lives at least once, and it's not even that he _won't_ accept their gratitude for it; it's that he don't know how. It's unfamiliar territory, and to a man like Daryl, one that's grown up the way he has and had to live the way he has, unfamiliar's dangerous.

But then, so's spending the night alone outside. He could've been walker bait, no matter how tough he is. If he'd let his guard down just one second, if he'd run into a herd or another party or Lord only knows what else, he could've been dead and gone, and there would've been nothing for it.

Just thinking about it tightens the knot that's been sitting heavy in the pit of his gut since the morning before, and he's got an ache building up behind his eyes that's probably only partly to do with the sharp right Daryl gave him. Rick was no stranger to sleepless nights, but he was no spring flower, either. They took their tolls, and right now, Rick's paying.

So, for all his thinking and reasoning, Rick's still not ready to let it go. It was an unnecessary, stupid risk; Daryl shouldn't 'a done it, and he knows that. He's got to, or else Rick's got no idea what they're even doing here. They don't take stupid risks; they don't put each other in danger. Daryl had to know they'd have come looking for him, at least Rick hopes he does.

That's a can of worms for another time. He's got enough on his plate right at the moment, and while he's no stranger to Daryl's people troubles, nor's he decided it's an entirely lost cause, it's not a cause he's got it in him to fight tonight. They live their lives one battle at a time; it's the only way to keep a hold of things. And Daryl's not something Rick's willing to let go, either.

He'll hear him out, give him a chance to set the record straight and clear the air. With Daryl back and safe and sound, and Rick's temper cooled down at least enough he's not seeing red, he's looking for an explanation.

The trick'll be getting one.


	4. Chapter 4

Rick's no tracker; Daryl's said it time and time again, and Rick's accepted it just ain't for him. That being said, it don't take a hell of a lot in the way of tracking skills for him to follow the trail of wet bootprints and water droplets all the way into C-block and up the stairs to Daryl's cell. There's no door, but he gives the bar a good rapping with his knuckles before he pushes the make-shift curtain aside and lets himself in.

Daryl's in there, alright, and midway through stripping out of his soggy clothes. Rick reckons he knows it's Rick there, 'cause he doesn't turn, just keeps on undoing the buttons on his shirt.

Under any other circumstances, Rick'd like as not be offering to lend a hand. 'Specially since he looks to be having a bit of trouble with it. But this ain't the time or the place for that, so Rick just leans back against the bars and tries to figure out just what he wants to say. Talking ain't really a strong suit for either one of them, and after what happened a few minutes ago, he's really looking to keep this civil.

He must take too long deciding, because it's actually Daryl that breaks the silence. "You come to yell at me some more?" he mutters, but it's not so much accusatory as resigned. Like he thinks he deserves it. And the way he's keeping his back turned, barely glancing back and never meeting Rick's eyes…it tells just about the same story.

Rick shakes his head on reflex, then realizes Daryl ain't looking his way anymore, so he has to actually speak. "Nah, think I'm all yelled out. Why? You got anything you wanna get off your chest?" He says it casually, and hell, it's a good start. Better than ten minutes ago, for damn sure.

Daryl lets out a sigh, and his shoulders – and Rick really don't understand how shoulders can be so thin and still look like they're carrying the weight of the world – sag deep. "Shit, Rick," he starts, then seems to get hung up a bit. No, words really ain't their thing; then again, Rick guesses they've never really needed them before.

He wants to say something. Call this whole thing off, let it slide just this once. They all make mistakes, and Daryl looks so damn miserable standing there with his hair all plastered to his head with the rain and his pants and open shirt clinging to him like a second skin. He's got to be chilly standing there like that, and tired to boot from the hunt. Part of him wants to put it on a backburner and just embrace being happy he's back.

Except he can't, because mistakes in the world they're living in…they get people killed. And Rick knows, learned painfully well that last fall, that that's something he can't let happen.

Besides, it doesn't strike Rick as _just_ a mistake. There's something going on with daryl, and whether or not it's what he thinks it is doesn't matter because last night's proved it: there is _something_. There's something going on they need to sort out, and Rick's not letting go until they do.

"I think you and I need to have a conversation," he says finally. He thinks it sound alright.

He thinks again, though, when Daryl nigh on winces. He's turned a little more, in the middle of pulling off his shirt, only he's stopped dead. Deer in headlights – that's as close a description as comes to mind at the moment, but Rick's head's not exactly overflowing with anything that doesn't have to do specifically with solving the problem of the man right in front of him.

"If this's abou the…" Daryl gestures at Rick's face, and damned if he don't look like the most guilty, miserable son of a bitch Rick's ever laid eyes on.

Rick shakes his head. "It ain't even about that," he says, and just for good measure, adds, "Far as I'm concerned, I had this much comin'."

"Don't make it right."

Rick noticed he doesn't disagree outright, though. He made a mighty fine ass of himself earlier; it's not a performance he's planning on repeating.

"Yeah, well, you really want to make it up to me, you can start by tellin' me the real reason you broke curfew." Daryl starts to open his mouth at that, but Rick holds up a hand. "I'm askin' you to tell me the truth here, Daryl. I wanna give you the benefit of the doubt, but you gotta meet me halfway. You and I both know the storm's a crock of shit. You've come back in worse than this, and I can't think of any storm short of a natural disaster that'd keep you from someplace you meant to go. What I wanna know's why."

Which apparently isn't what Daryl cares to tell him, 'cause he pulls a face somewhere between a grimace and a scowl. But Rick knows he's got him, because he's not gonna lie outright. Not to Rick's face. Not when he knows they're playing for keeps. "Sounds like you already got it figured out." It comes out in a near-snarl, and Rick also knows that tone. He's on the defensive. He feels cornered, and that's not the way Rick wants to play this. He's just not sure he's got any other choices.

It's his turn to sigh, and he pushes off the bars, tucking his thumb through his belt loop. It's just shy of holding his hands out, still nice and unthreatening. He's usually pretty good at reading Daryl, and even after all this mess, he reckons he knows what to look for. Right now, his nose is all flared and his jaw's clenched, and he's got that bowstring tightness about him that says he's ready to spring.

"Don't do that," he says, trying to sound firm, but it just comes out pleading and tired. "Don't make this another fight."

"Then just leave it!" Daryl snaps back. "It ain't gonna happen again, so you don't have nothin' to fuss about."

It's all Rick can do to keep himself calmed down. He meant what he said: he just wants answers. He just wants a window into whatever the hell's going on here, because he and Daryl are usually on the same level, and this just feels _wrong_ being like they are. It feels isolated.

So, he keeps his temper in check. "I ain't here to fuss at you, Daryl. I ain't here to tell you what to do or what not to, and this ain't about defendin' yourself to me or anybody else. I'm askin' why you did what you did, 'cause I'm worried about you."

There's a look that flashes through Daryl's eyes just for an instant that makes Rick think he might've gotten through, but just as soon as he sees it, it's gone, and Daryl's jaw's clenching and his lips are curling down into a deeper frown. "Don't be."

"Too late."

"Yeah, well that ain't my problem," Daryl says, and even muttered like it is, it's sharp as a knife.

And for all he's trying, Rick's just a man, and he's starting to get frustrated. "Dammit, Daryl, I'm not askin' you to confess your darkest sins to me. This isn't an interrogation. I just want—I _need_ to know why a night in walker-infested woods in the middle of a storm sounds better to you than spending it here, where it's safe and dry. Just tell me that, and we can be done here."

"You wouldn't understand." It's a classic shut down, but in true Daryl fashion, it reads different than anything else Rick's ever seen. It reads genuine. He really thinks that, that Rick wouldn't understand. And maybe that shouldn't hurt the way it does, but Rick…Christ, he hates this. He hates every bit of it.

"'Course I won't. Not if you don't tell me," he tries.

But Daryl's getting flustered again. He's taken to pacing around the cell, although he doesn't have much in the way of a place to go. There's that look again on his face, the caged look, like he'd bolt the first chance he got if only he could find one.

Rick's not planning on giving him one, though. "Just talk to me, dammit." And Lord, he sounds like Lori used to. He's never really understood her frustration, though, until now. He's running low on patience and ideas, and it's in a last ditch effort that he steps in, breaks through Daryl's perimeter and takes him by the shoulders. His skin's cold to the touch – nights aren't warm enough just yet, and the storm's brought in a cold front – but Rick forces himself to ignore it and grips him tighter when he goes to pull away. "Look at me," he says firmly, but not harshly, and when it doesn't work this time, he doesn't yell, just repeats himself a little more pointedly. "Daryl, look at me." Each word's spoken separate and clear, and it seems to do it.

With one last halfhearted tug, like a horse still too proud or stubborn to admit it's been broken, Daryl raises his head to look Rick in the eyes.

Rick meets his gaze with his own, steady and intense. "You trust me?" he asks.

Daryl looks thrown a minute, and maybe a touch cautious. "What?"

"I said, _do you trust me_? Yes or no." Make it simple, Rick figures. Not 'cause Daryl can't handle complicated, but because they don't either of them need things any more complicated than they are.

To his credit and Rick's relief, Daryl doesn't hesitate. "Yes." He doesn't sound real sure he likes where he thinks Rick's going, but he does sound sure he means it, and that's something. That's a lot. If Rick's got that, he reckons he can make do with just about everything else.

"Alright, then," he says. "Then trust me. Tell me what the problem is. Maybe I can help, maybe I can't, but at least I'll know. That's gotta be better'n keeping it to yourself, don't it?" He gives Daryl's shoulders a firm squeeze. That's more their speed: touches, looks, unspoken understandings. It's where they're comfortable.

Daryl looks torn. His eyes look every which way, like the cell's gonna give him the answer to all his problems, and he's shifting his weight again from foot to foot. Skittish. Anxious. Daryl's been highstrung for too damn long; Rick can't believe it's taken him so damn long to notice. He'd kick himself, if only it'd do any good.

"C'mon, Daryl. Just give me something. You got to give me something."

And it's after a long, tense moment, that Daryl finally does. "'S too crowded in here," he mutters, barely audible over the rest of the noises in the prison. It's there, though, and it's a start, and Rick's grateful.

He thinks that's all he's gonna get, though, so he drops his hands, ready to ask another question – he usually did interrogations before the person was in a prison cell, he thinks a little ironically, but the world's all on its head now anyhow; and besides that, Rick didn't tend to care so much for the people he was interrogating – only, to his surprise, Daryl beats him to the punch.

"Bad enough it's a damn prison," he says. "Now we got it stuffed to the rafters, too. Like fuckin' sardines in a can."

Rick was right, then, this being about the people. About Daryl not being comfortable around them. He's not sure how he feels about it, though, now he knows. It's not as if there's anything he can do to fix it. Just start kicking people out…and he knows that's not what Daryl would want, either, no matter how claustrophobic they have him feeling. He's just venting, blowing off some steam. It's healthy, a hell of a lot more so than keeping it all to himself like he has been, and even though Rick's hit the nail more or less on the head, it still helps to hear it from him.

Daryl's stopped pacing, now, but he's still rocking on his feet, that restless energy crackling in the air around him so thick Rick can nearly feel it himself. "The hell's with these people, anyway? Makin' over everything for no good reason, always runnin' at the mouth. Act like they ain't never seen a buck before."

"They're just grateful." The 'we all are' is on the tip of his tongue, but he doesn't say it. Words – they're not a strength, and it seems to him they mean less. "A lot of 'em look up to you."

Daryl snorts. "They're stupid."

"You do a lot for them."

"Yeah, well fuck 'em." It's awful abrupt, and sort of shocking for it. Again, Rick's got a strong notion he doesn't mean it; he's got too good a heart for that. He's just all flustered and upset, and it's got to come out somehow. "Half those people out there wouldn't 'a looked twice at me before all this," he goes on, pointing out towards the prison. His face is an angry red, but it's awful hard to buy into that when his eyes're so damn distressed. And confused. "Other half would've called the damn cops. And now they wanna thank me? Think I'm worth somethin' now I'm the one filling their plates? Fuck all of 'em! If I had to spend one more day packed in here with those two-faced jackasses, I'd've started shootin'."

And there it is, Rick thinks. The real reason for his not coming back, and…well, shit, it kinda makes sense. It's sad as all get out, because this is their home, _Daryl's_ home, and he doesn't feel at ease in it anymore, but Daryl was wrong; he does get it.

Doesn't mean it was right, though. Or that it was smart, running off like he did, and this…Daryl getting himself all worked up and pacing his cell like a captive tiger in a tiny cage, it's not helping anybody, least of all Daryl. It's out, and Rick knows, and now he's just got to figure out what to do about it.

He reckons he'll start by keeping Daryl from pacing a hole in the floor.

"Hey," he says, catching Daryl with a hand on his chest next time he goes to pass him. He steps in closer and catches Daryl's eyes before he speaks. "I get it. I do. And I know that week and a half getting cooped up in here got you all stir-crazy, and you needed your space. I understand all that." If not personally, then at least thinking on how it must be in Daryl's shoes. "But you can't put yourself at risk like that. They may not be your idea of good company, but these people need you." He moves in a step or two, his hand on Daryl's chest to rest on the bare skin over his chest and presses it there. "_I _need you, alright? So next time you think you can't stomach it anymore, you come to me. We'll figure it out. You understand me?"

There's a moment where Daryl doesn't answer, with his lips pursed tight and his hands clenching and unclenching at his sides. He's not ready to settle down. He's not ready to gentle just yet, but Rick's got his number, and it's happening whether he likes it or not. "Yeah," he says finally, but he says it less like he actually means it and more like he's just saying it in the hope that Rick'll let it be.

He really ought to know better.

"I mean it," Rick tells him, and when he still doesn't seem convinced, he repeats himself. "Daryl, I mean it." And he lifts his other hand, this time to curl around the back of Daryl's neck, warm and firm and steady. It's their gesture, and when he urges Daryl closer, it means so much more than any words can.

All the same, "This is your home, Daryl." Because even though it shouldn't need to be said, it does; Daryl needs to hear it. "You have as much right to feeling safe in it as anybody else." If not more, Rick thinks, but doesn't add, if only because he knows Daryl would never accept the idea that he might deserve more of anything than anybody else. It's a hard enough battle just convincing him he deserves the same.

The fact he's kept all of this to himself so long's the proof. Christ, but it must've been a long few months for Daryl. Rick can't help remembering now, all those times he saw Daryl with a newcomer. When they caught him at breakfast to thank him for something or other, or that kid that seems hell bent on knowing his whole life story right down to the scars he happened to see on his back. He's got some wild hare idea he was some sort of mercenary or something before all this happened.

Rick's one of the privileged few that knows the real story, and it's nothing so romantic as that. Just a sick son of a bitch beating the shit out of his kids, and the rest of Daryl's life's not been much kinder.

He thinks about all those times, now, and he nigh on cringes, because what he saw as a conversation to Daryl might've been some sort of ambush; the kid's questions, an interrogation. Too many people wanting too many things that Daryl's still not really sure how to give, and Rick reckons now it makes sense Daryl took to avoiding it all.

"I'll talk to 'em," Rick says. It seems like too little too late; some damage's already been done, and that's a whole lot of days of stress he can't make up for. But at least he's up for trying. "Get 'em to back off a little, give you your space. They'll understand."

It's hard to say if the little bounce Daryl's shoulders give is a chuckle or a scoff, but the little hitch of a smile on his lips's wry as it gets. "Sure they will."

But Rick insists. "They will. And even if they don't know why they're doin' it, I'll see to it they do."

"You don't gotta do that…" Daryl mutters. His eyes are down again, and Rick resists the urge to tip his chin up. He's still uneasy; Rick'll give him the time he needs to come out of it.

That being said, "The hell I don't." He doesn't snap; he just says it, deadpan and dead even. "If it's enough to drive you out, then it's a problem. I can't have you runnin' off, Daryl. Not the way you did last night, staying out past curfew without a word of warning." He does need eye contact, then – he needs Daryl to hear him, and he needs to know he does – but instead of moving Daryl for it, he bends down a little and catches his eyes where they're downcast, and Daryl takes the hint. His eyes track him as he straightens back up, and he holds his gaze steady. "That can't happen again; you know that. The only reason we survive here is we're careful, and last night…that wasn't careful. It was reckless. And I know I said I can't tell you what to do, but I'm _askin'_ you not to put me in that position again. No more unnecessary risks."

Daryl swallows visibly, and gives that sort of jerky nod he gives when he's not real sure about something but he's signing on anyway. "Alright," he says, voice gruff and low. "I got it." And he starts to turn, Rick guesses to walk away.

"Hey." Rick tightens his hand at the back of Daryl's neck, not enough to spook him, but enough to get his point across. _Stay_. "I wasn't finished."

"Well then say what you wanna say already," Daryl gripes. "I ain't got all day."

Rick raises his eyebrow at that. "You got someplace you need to be?" Far as he's concerned from looking at him, only place Daryl needs to be today's sleeping or taking it easy.

"That buck needs dressing."

"Plenty 'a people here know how to dress a buck," Rick counters patiently. They're just going through the motions. Give and take. He can tell this ain't a fight Daryl cares too strongly about one way or the other, so chances are he'll just give and let Rick win. It's not Rick's favorite leaning, but it comes in damn handy sometimes. "What I was tryin' to tell you's that I'm not expecting you to be the only one to make a change. You had a reason for doing what you did, and it ain't right for me to expect you to pretend the problem's gone away when it hasn't. I wouldn't _want_ you to." He doesn't even like what pretending he already did. He really doesn't. He wants Daryl to be _happy_. Comfortable. Safe. After everything he's been through, the kind of man he still manages to be, he deserves at least that much, and Rick'd give the moon and the stars if he could make it happen.

As it is, this is all he's got. But if there's even a chance it helps, he'll do all he can.

He puts his other hand up on Daryl's shoulder, squaring them up. It's not too much, he doesn't think. Daryl _likes_ being touched, being close, so long as it's on his terms, and Rick's not pushing any boundaries. It's not restrictive, just there, and he brushes his other thumb over the softer hairs at the nape of his neck. "Outside 'a that, I just got one request."

This time, it's definitely a chuckle, and the smile's a little less wry. "Never took you for the needy type."

Rick rewards his lip with a soft cuff to the back of his head, before settling his hand back on the nape of his neck. "Don't get smart," he says, and this…this is good. This is _right_. But he's just got one more thing to say, and he's got to say it before he can really let himself relax. "Just don't be a stranger, alright? I meant what I said: you got a problem, there's somethin' the matter, anything at all, you come to me. Don't keep it to yourself, don't try and hide it. And I swear to you, whatever it is, I'll do whatever I can to make it right. You hear?"

For a long minute, Daryl just stares at him. His gaze is intense. Searching, like there's an answer he ain't got hidden somewhere in Rick's face, somewhere in his eyes, and he can't be satisfied until he finds it. And Rick thinks he can pinpoint the moment he does, because there's this flash of something in his eyes Rick can't quite place, and then he's nodding. It's real this time, too. Genuine. "Yeah," he says. "Yeah, I hear."

Rick believes him this time, too, and it's like that knot sitting pretty in the pit of his gut finally comes undone and he can breathe and move and think again. And he doesn't _quite_ smile, at least not with his mouth, and he doesn't say _thank you_, but he does tip his head forward, his brow to Daryl's, and that's just about better than both of them in his books. Because at the end of the day – or the beginning, in this case – they're back where they're supposed to be. Back to understanding without words, back to this bond Rick doesn't know if he'll ever find the right name for, back to being _them_. Not just each of them like themselves, but the both of them, together, back the way they're supposed to be.


	5. Chapter 5

It might be putting the cart before the horse a bit, but Rick feels better. The problem ain't solved – no amount of talking's going to make Daryl any more at ease around relative strangers, and the Woodbury folks ain't going anywhere anytime soon if Rick can help it – but at least now Rick knows what's what. The devil he knows is better than the one he don't, so yeah…yeah, he feels better.

Daryl, he reckons, probably can't say the same.

He might be better off now he's gotten what's been nagging him off his chest, and that's an improvement, but he's also still standing there in sopping wet clothes, hair dripping in his eyes, probably one ounce of pride away from shivering 'til his teeth click.

"You look like a fresh-bathed cat," Rick says, and he tries, God help him, not to smile, but it's just not possible.

Daryl's eyes get even narrower. "Woulda changed by now if you hadn't been too busy mawin' at me," he grumbles. There's no bite to it, just something that looks dangerously like a pout. He goes back to trying to peel off his shirt, but his right shoulder looks to be giving him some trouble. Rick's gotten used to spotting it.

He gives him a few seconds, lets him give it a shot, but when all Daryl gets for his trouble is frustrated, he decides it's time for a little intervention. "Alright, c'mere," he says, because in his fight with his shirt, he's backed himself up a few steps. Rick reaches for his arm, ignoring the little shy-away he gives him, because it's not him being startled or skittish, just stubborn and sulky, and he uses it to pull him in closer. He won't say Daryl goes without a fight, or without a few less-than-civil words muttered under his breath, but it's halfhearted at best, so Rick's alright with it. "There y'are." And after everything, Rick'll admit that it's a relief Daryl doesn't so much as flinch when he reaches for the front of his shirt.

There are bruises, he notices, as he pushes the shirt off Daryl's shoulders. But there are always bruises. Always bumps and scratches and pulled muscles, and it seems like Daryl's got a little bit of the full run. It's just the way they live, though; it's hard, and it's painful.

That's why Rick cherishes moments like this. It's quiet; seems like everyone that'd come to C-Block has cleared out, gone to start whatever their job is in the day to day. C-Block's mostly the old group, anyhow, and save Beth and Judith who he can just barely hear down at the far end of the block. It's as much alone time as they're like to get – besides, say, sneaking out for the night and worrying everybody half to death – and Rick intends to make good of it.

He's got Daryl's shirt off, now, and he takes a second to let his eyes rove, make sure it's just bumps and bruises and not the other b-word he's not too keen on thinking about. That scar on his side, just over his ribs, is more than enough of a reminder, pink and shiny and a little raised under his hand as he moves it to rest on it. The muscles twitch under the warmth of his palms, and he tries to catch Daryl's eyes. Tries. Daryl's awful interested in Rick's chin, or somewhere thereabouts.

He doesn't let it bother him much; it's just how Daryl is. So, he just goes about his business, shifting his hand up from Daryl's ribs to his shoulder and stepping around behind him. "Banged your shoulder pretty good," he observes. Not that he expects Daryl needs telling; it's more of a warning than anything. This time, Daryl does flinch, but only because Rick lays hands on his taut shoulders, and apparently they really are sore to the touch. He doesn't let up, though. "Easy, now. Relax. You're in good hands." He's only done this a hundred or so times, and Daryl's probably returned the favor just as many. It's nigh on automatic, the way his hands just do the work without his really having to think about it, kneading out the knots with the ease of practice and damn good grip strength.

He knows it's Daryl's weakness. Right up there with hair-petting and old novelty candies Rick's started stashing for a rainy day. This seems as good a one as any, only Rick's not real sure Daryl'd stay awake long enough to enjoy it. He's not been sleeping right, spending more nights than not in the towers on watch. And even the ones he's spent in Rick's bed've been restless at best, usually ending all too soon at the first signs of life in the prison. Or sooner.

After last night, it seems like it's all starting to catch up with him, and a tough son of a bitch though Daryl might be, Rick gets the sneaking suspicion it's only a matter of time before he hits a wall. It's with that in mind Rick stops the impromptu shoulder massage and gives Daryl a couple taps on the arm.

It'd be funny, the confused-turned-indignant look Daryl gets on his face when he glances back at Rick, if it weren't so damn pitiful. He's definitely nearing the end of his rope, or else's already hit it. Rick's just glad he's getting to it there in the prison and not out there in the woods someplace. Somehow, he doubts a walker'd be so kind as him to give him a shoulder rub and a quick towel-off if it stumbled across his path.

He stifles the thought quick as it comes. Daryl getting chewed on by a walker's already the stuff of nightmares; there's no sense thinking about it while he's awake. "Don't give me that look," he tells him. "You're half-asleep on your feet." And he notices Daryl doesn't even begin to deny it. Good. He knows Rick's got his number. "And much as I know you love your pants being soaked through, I think it's time you changed." His expression flashed almost mischievously, then, and he hooked his fingers in the band of Daryl's wet jeans. "'Course, I wouldn't mind offering a hand, if you l—" The rest is lost to a grunt as Daryl thwaps him in the gut. It's soft enough it doesn't hurt, more playful than anything.

"Stop," he mutters, but his face is a pretty shade of pink, and his lips're kind of curved up, even if he doesn't mean them to be. It's cute, Rick thinks, if a mite odd, that Daryl can stare down a herd of walkers with a straight face, but say something even the least bit suggestive, and he gets all flustered.

He does, though. He backs off and lets Daryl get himself out of his sodden jeans. His boots and socks follow, too, all of it hitting the ground together in a balled-up pile with a wet thump. They'll deal with them. Pass them off to laundry, get some of the woods and walker blood out of them, at least 'til the first five minutes of the next time he wears them.

That can wait, though.

Right now, Daryl's stepping out of his boxers, and it doesn't matter how many times Rick's seen him like this, seen all of him laid bare, it still makes his mouth go dry and his pulse pick up. Of all of them, Daryl's the one that most looks to've seen the end of the world and life the way they've had to lead it these past couple years. He's slimmed down, maybe more than anybody, to nothing but solid, corded muscle and sharp bones and scars all over. Only Rick knows most of them – hell, not even a lot of them – are from the last couple years.

Still, that don't change the fact that he's a hell of a sight. It's almost a shame to cover it up, but even from where Rick's standing, he can see the goose bumps rising up on his skin, so he grabs a towel from the milk crate Daryl's been using to hold the few clothes he's got and pulls it around Daryl's shoulders. "Go ahead and get yourself dried off. Last thing we need around here's you comin' down with something." He says it with a smile, but he's only half-joking. Quarters as close as these, if somebody gets sick, it's liable to spread like wildfire. And they can't exactly run down to the store for some cold medicine.

"Thanks," Daryl says, taking the towel from his shoulders and scrubbing himself down none-too-gently while Rick digs through his milk crate for some dry clothes. He picks out a pair of boxers and some jeans, but doesn't bother with the shirt; there's a reason for it, but Daryl doesn't question as he pulls on the offered clothes. The towel's still hanging around his shoulders, and his hair's a tousled mess, but at least he's not dripping like a dishcloth all over the floor.

"Reminds me," Rick says once he's finished getting his pants fastened, an idle sort of quality to his voice as he reclaims the distance between them, slipping his hand back around the back of Daryl's neck. His fingers card through the still-damp hair at his nape, and he uses the hold to guide him in closer until they're lined up. Far as Rick's concerned, every inch of space between them's a waste of it, and he knows Daryl appreciates the heat from the way he leans into it. "Never did get around to thankin' you for the buck."

And close as they are, he can feel Daryl falter a bit. "Nothin' to thank me for. 'S what I do."

"And if you didn't do it, we wouldn't be eatin' anything but canned food and rice. So thank you."

"You'd figure somethin' out."

"I'm tryin' to show a little gratitude here, Daryl." That's half the problem, the way Rick sees it, is Daryl doesn't know what to do with appreciation. Can't take a compliment or recognition, and strangely, that's something decent people like to give to someone that's helped them out. "Just say 'you're welcome' and we can both move on."

For a second, Daryl doesn't say much of anything, just stares at him. But then, "You're welcome." It's gruff and all sorts of uncomfortable, but Rick's learned to take what he can get and be happy with it.

He smiles, and pulls Daryl in with the hand on his neck to press a kiss to his head, then to his lips, and chaste as it is, it still lights a fire in Rick's belly. They're both too tired to make anything of it – and damned if that don't make Rick feel older than his years – but that's alright. That's just fine, because great as that is, there are things just as good, and truth is, a real moment's peace can be harder to come by than the chance for a quick go 'round.

"C'mon," he says when they part, and starts steering him towards his bunk where he sits down against the head and pats the cot in front of him

Daryl gets it, he knows he does, but he gets this stumped little look on his face. "'S barely morning," he says.

"And?"

"Don't you got shit to do?"

Rick nods. "Yep." That earns him an incredulous stare from Daryl, like Rick's gone stupid or silly all of the sudden. He hasn't though. At least, no more than usual. "Right now, that's bein' right here, makin' sure you're good and then catchin' myself some shut-eye 'fore things get too lively 'round here." He arched an eyebrow. "You with me? Or you just want to stand there holdin' down the floor?"

That last bit seems to do the trick, and although he narrows his eyes and mutters a few choice phrases under his breath, he ends up sliding in right between Rick's outstretched legs just where Rick wanted him. He doesn't give him any chance to change his mind, neither, picking right back up where he left off working out the knots in his shoulders.

"Remember what you did to 'em?" he asks. His voice is soft, mild, so as not to disturb the comfortable peace that's settled between them. Daryl's shoulders shrug uner his hands, and Rick can't help chuckling and shaking his head when Daryl lets out a muted sort of grunt. Apparently, shrugging's not high on the list of things Daryl's shoulders're up for. "Wanna run that by me again?" And there's a note of teasing to his voice he doesn't bother hiding, though he does lean forward to press his lips to the juncture of his neck, where it dips into his collarbone.

"Damn buck was heavy," Daryl says. "Might 'a wrenched 'em loading it up." He doesn't sound real perturbed about it, but then, Daryl doesn't tend to sound real perturbed about much of anything. Whether he is or not, well, that's something that takes a little more deciphering.

"Might've," Rick agrees, because at any rate, that'd do it. "What about walkers? You have any trouble with them?"

Daryl starts to shrug again, but Rick gives his shoulders a light squeeze to remind him that's off the shortlist for replies just now. He grumbles in response, but it does the trick alright. "Couple pockets along the creek. Three or four at a time, maybe. Nothin' much."

"Think you might be the only man I know writes off a handful of walkers as 'nothin' much,'" Rick tells him.

"Wasn't no trouble."

"And I'm glad to hear it." More than glad. He doesn't know exactly what he'd have done if Daryl hadn't come back, but he knows it wouldn't have been anything good. "Just next time, do us a favor and phone home."

That earns him a chuckle from Daryl. "You my wife now're somethin'?"

"Yes, dear," is Rick's bemused response, and Daryl snorts, a sharp elbow digging back into Rick's side by way of rebuke. Again, not hard enough to hurt; if anything, it just makes Rick smile all the wider. Daryl's such an odd thing. Coarse and callous as it gets when it comes to thinks most people'd cringe at, but shy as a sheltered teenager with things most people take for granted. Any way you look at it, Daryl's a bit backwards.

But hell, Rick likes him that way.

He likes him like this, too, next to boneless and slowly but steadily slumping back against Rick's chest. Sure enough, he's crashing hard; Rick knew it was just a matter of time. It's a good thing, too, 'cause Rick's eyes are getting heavier, and he's thinking it's just about time for that shuteye he was planning on taking earlier.

Daryl's nearly dozed off by the time Rick starts to move – and maybe it's just that he's tired, but Rick'd rather thing it's 'cause he's finally calmed down and comfortable enough to let his guard down again – so he gives a little start awake. He starts to stand, too, but Rick catches him with a hand on his arm.

"Hey now, hold your horses," he says "I wasn't movin' to get you up, just switching us around a bit." And to Rick's relief, Daryl seems just fine with that plan.

It takes some doing. Rick's not real flexible, and even if Daryl is, there's only so much room on the bunk, and they're a pair of grown ass men. They manage, though. They always do, and this time's no different. They're stretched out on the cot. Rick's got his back to the wall, and Daryl's got his back to Rick – being stuck between a body and a wall's a mite too claustrophobic for Daryl, no matter how much he and Rick get along – and it's a tight fit, but it's a familiar one.

"Get some sleep."

Rick smiles when Daryl hums an agreement. "Don't haveta tell me twice," he mutters. Sleep's got his accent thicker than usual, spoken through barely-open teeth on a sluggish tongue. He shifts a little, not restlessly, just to get himself comfortable, and Rick waits until he's situated to drape an arm around his waist. This close, every breath Rick breathes, he smells Daryl. It's the scent of woods and musk and rain still drying on his damp skin, and to Rick, it smells like home. Like family.

He still remembers that day on the farm, and as the rise and fall of Daryl's chest evens out, he lets himself think back on it. Watching Daryl go off by himself to look for Sophia, hearing what he said to him and not really knowing what to do with it.

_I'm better on my own._

There are times Rick thinks Daryl still believes that, when he slips back to his old habits and forgets everything they've managed to do. There are times Rick worries he's gonna wake up one day, and Daryl'll be gone.

But then, there're moments like this. Quiet moments. There're moments he'll catch Daryl with Judith, cradling and coddling and cooing at her and looking for all the world like he was born to do it; there're moments when Daryl goes out of his way helping somebody or a lot of somebodies, and then when people return the favor. There're moments, hard as they are to come by, when things are good, and living's not just about surviving, that Rick can appreciate how much Daryl's changed since this all started. There's still some growing room; he reckons the same can be said for just about all of them there. They've all got things to chance, and for better or for worse, the world they live in has a funny way of making it happen. And yet, even with that, Rick likes to think there's one thing that's never gonna change:

In the world they live in, there ain't anybody, even Daryl – maybe even _especially_ Daryl – that's really better on their own.


End file.
